The Seige of the Lonely Mountain
by AngieT
Summary: Frodo is at it again
1. Default Chapter

Title: The Siege of the Lonely Mountain 1/3 Author: Angie Rating: PG Disclaimer: No profit, no gain, no ownership. I mean, if I did own Frodo the RSPCH would soon take him away from me!  
  
Frodo stumbled again as he made his way down the dimly lit tunnel. This was it. One way or another, Frodo knew he was reaching the end of his long journey. He was weak with hunger and in the clutches of the enemy. He could hardly stand anymore, let alone crawl forwards.  
  
He had been captured by the orc two days ago and since then existence had been a nightmare of starvation and torment. His stomach rumbled all the time in hunger and the smells from the orcs' kitchen up ahead had driven him to a final act of desperation. He must have food or die, and if the orc caught him in its kitchen he would be killed anyway.  
  
The orc was a hideous creature with grizzled hair about its ugly face; it was shapeless and bloated under its garments. Since it had caught the hobbit it had taken delight in tormenting him, starving him and locking him away, only to let him out to torment him with potential freedom, then to snatch it away again.  
  
How Frodo longed for his friends and family; to be rescued - taken home, safe and warm. But he was alone, torn from his companions and from safety, to fend for himself. He had been grabbed so many days ago now and forced to journey the vast distance to the orcs' dwelling deep under the mountain. He would die here - and never see sunshine or loved ones again. His quest had failed, to the ruin of all!  
  
He crept stealthily forwards in the semi-darkness, one hand out to the curved wall by his side. He was so weak with hunger, he knew he could not carry on for much longer. He was going to die here, in the dark, far from home and in despair.  
  
The orc had its back to the wooden table and was stirring a cook pot. Frodo shuddered in revulsion as to what the cook pot might contain. It smelt like rabbit but for all the hobbit knew, cooked elf smelled like rabbit.  
  
Between Frodo and the huge ugly orc was the table, laden with fresh baked bread and some kind of orcish cakes. Frodo summoned all his courage and crept out into the fire-lit kitchen on stealthy feet. Hardly daring to breathe he edged forwards, eyes on a loaf of bread which seemed to be calling directly to his empty belly.  
  
He reached out. Stretching forwards and was just about to grab the loaf when the orc brought its club down in a crushing blow upon his hand.  
  
"Frodo Baggins!" scolded the orc. "If you are not the naughtiest hobbit in all the Shire I don't know who is!"  
  
Frodo yelped and jumped back from the table. The wooden spoon his Uncle Bilbo had rapped his knuckles with was rather hot still from the stew pot. The orc, well, the older hobbit, planted his hands on his hips and glared at his youngest relation.  
  
"Are you this much trouble to your mother?"  
  
"I was hungry!"  
  
"You're always hungry, Frodo!" Bilbo gazed at the little hobbit sternly. "Well, lad, no need to sneak around. Though I haven't finished my baking yet. How about a nice crisp apple?"  
  
Frodo, ten yeas old, pouted.  
  
"Your stomach is as over active as your imagination," Bilbo sighed, fighting the smile which was teasing at the corners of his mouth. "And you might stand there looking like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, but you'll grow up to be a troll at this rate and no mistake!"  
  
Frodo, as well practised in getting him own way as any hobbit child, looked up through his long eyelashes at his cousin. Bilbo was a pushover where food was concerned and Frodo had been well stuffed for the last two days. Even his imagination was having a hard time pretending to be a starving prisoner of orcs.  
  
"I will do you a trade, Frodo son of Drogo. My fire is getting low. You fetch me a log from the pile and I will let you have one cinnamon roll."  
  
"What if I bring two logs?" asked Frodo, ever the opportunist.  
  
"Shoo!"  
  
Frodo scampered off back down the corridor and out the back of his cousin's neat smial. The log pile was stacked up next to the back door just under the eves and Frodo gathered up a log and turned to run back. And stopped.  
  
He turned round again. Where he had taken the log from the neat pile he had left a jagged hole. It looked almost exactly like a dragon with a tooth knocked out. Or an arrow slit in a castle wall. Hum. Frodo's imagination began to race. He put the log down and pulled out another. If he rearranged the walls of logs.  
  
Half an hour later Frodo Baggins was sitting within the caverns of the Lonely Mountain planning his battle strategy. And Bilbo had given up on that extra log. If the orcs attacked from the South then he had an impenetrable wall between them and him, and there was no way they were getting in from anywhere else!  
  
He wished he had a bow and arrows, but he would just have to make do with some small stones from the rockery - um, armoury - to hurl down on his attackers. Boiling oil would be good. And in case of a long siege he would need.. Food!  
  
Frodo climbed back over his battlements, retrieved the log and ran back into the house.  
  
"I thought you had been carried off by eagles," Bilbo said, almost as though he were quite disappointed that this had not come to pass. He handed over a fragrant roll in payment for the errand, no matter how tardily completed. And Frodo ran off again.  
  
Bilbo shook his head. Of all the strange hobbit children, Frodo really must be the strangest. While his parents were away visiting, Bilbo had stepped in and said he would mind the lad for a few days. Admittedly Bilbo had little experience of children let alone this blue eyed changeling.  
  
So it was that the two days he had been at Bag end mostly seemed to have consisted of Frodo vanishing for long periods and reappearing at mealtimes, punctuated by Bilbo telling him not to do this thing or that thing.  
  
Frodo was, in short, driving Bilbo a little crazy, unused as he was to children, let alone a hyperactive ten year old bent on mayhem and destruction. Not, Bilbo had to admit, that he did it deliberately. It just seemed that Frodo was born to get into scrapes, and accidents were attracted to him like a cat to the morning's warm cream.  
  
Frodo had been in Bag end for less than 48 hours. But already Bilbo felt as though his existence had been reduced to shouting "Frodo, no!" at intervals, with maybe, "Frodo, stop!" or, "Frodo - put that back!" for variation. While accepting that the only serious damage he had done was to Bilbo's nerves, he was just about into everything. Nothing was sacred. He had stuck his nose, and often his hands, into every nook and cranny, investigated every chest and drawer, sampled just about everything in the pantry, and developed an irrational fear of the big oak clothes press which stood in the corridor outside Bilbo's bed room.  
  
The lad had taken to running by it full tilt with his eyes closed, claiming that there was a troll living in it - and usually colliding with the umbrella stand with an almighty crash in his flight.  
  
May be it was a generational thing, Bilbo told herself. At this age he would have been expected to amuse himself quietly with a book, or helping his mother in the kitchen, not charging around headlong into one mischief after another. But then, in Bilbo's day, hobbit children were brought up properly, to respect their elders, and to be occasionally seen and almost never heard.  
  
The umbrellas went crashing in the hallway once again.  
  
The lad had permanently scarred elbows and knees already from the amount of falling over he did, but he still would not "simmer down" or "go slow". He was at the age where life was something you had to run after at full tilt. Bilbo was at the stage where life was something you sat behind your curtains in a comfy chair and watched your neighbours doing. Although, the older hobbit had to admit to himself, there was still the occasional call of the road, especially at certain times of the year.  
  
An hour later Frodo arrived at the tea table and sat himself down. Bilbo had very strict ideas about meal times and content.  
  
"Did you wash your hands?" he said automatically as he brought out a steak and kidney pudding to put on the table and almost dropped it. He stared at Frodo, aghast.  
  
"Frodo lad! What happened?"  
  
Frodo sat at the table with his clean hands presented for inspection, half a spiders web on his left ear, a large chunk of dried moss stuck in his curls, and a face which looked like it had seen the business levels of not just one, but several dwarven mines.  
  
"How do you do it?" asked Bilbo in despair - before a spider swinging from its ruined web and onto the table galvanised him into action. He hauled Frodo up under the arms and deposited him onto the wooden draining board where his feet hung over a cupboard.  
  
Bilbo did like things neat and tidy, most especially in the kitchen. He applied soap to a sponge about as big as his head and proceeded to wash the boy while Frodo protested as volubly as a face full of sponge would allow.  
  
Frodo kicked and squirmed as best he could. Water was running down his shirt collar and he was surely going to be drowned. It was to no avail. Bilbo was a lot stronger than he was. Soon, red faced from scrubbing, and with rather damp hair, Frodo was again sat at the table - glowering darkly.  
  
An earwig dropped onto the table half way though the meal and by the time corners were filled with carrot cake the cousins were glowering at each other.  
  
"I think," announced Bilbo. "That you had better have a bath and then sit quietly in the parlour till supper."  
  
"A bath!" Frodo wailed as thought Bilbo had just suggested he walk all the way to Mordor.  
  
"A bath!"  
  
"I'll just go and put my things away then," said Frodo and ran for it.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Sunset over Erebor was lovely. The sky was swept over with orange and red, punctuated with light edged clouds.  
  
Frodo sat in his fortress, quite comfortable on a moss-covered log, and planned his campaign. He had driven off the attacking orc army and he would need to send out a scouting party under cover of twilight to make sure all signs of the enemy were gone. Then he would return to the magical halls of Rivendell for a celebratory banquet hopefully avoiding the necessity of a bath before hand. Maybe he could get Uncle Bilbo to tell him one of his wonderful stories or show him one of his maps again.  
  
He yawned. Single handily defending the fortress against all the armies of darkness was tiring work. He got to his feet and attempted to shake as much wood dust as he could from himself. He didn't like that big sponge.  
  
He stuck one foot into a crevice in his fortress wall and made to pull himself up and over his crenellations.  
  
The log pile, unused to the clambering of a ten year old hobbit lad, and weakened by its structural rearranging, gave a groan of protest and collapsed inwards taking the lone defender of the Lonely Mountain with it and burying him under a pile of logs.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Bilbo raised his head to listen. There was a sound like summer thunder from the back of the house. He frowned. Going to the front window he checked the sky. The sun has set and the shadows were gathering but there was no sigh not a storm.  
  
"Frodo!" he called. "Where are you lad?"  
  
Childless though he was Bilbo had developed a kind of sixth sense over the last few days where hobbit lads and trouble were concerned. He frowned disapprovingly, sure he had never caused his parents this much trouble when he was a boy.  
  
He made his way out to the back door. The hairs on the back of his neck were prickling as thought there were indeed a storm of its way. The small square of kitchen garden at the back looked peaceful enough. Bilbo was just stepping out into the main garden to conduct a search when he sneezed.  
  
The air just outside the back door was dusty. Frowning, and reaching for his pocket handkerchief Bilbo took a careful survey - and noticed at once the disarray of the previously neatly stacked log pile and the small fur and dirt covered food sticking out from the pile. A glint of red caught his eye. In utter horror Bilbo moved closer. There was a dark patch of spreading blood running down a slender ankle and running through the dirt. 


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The siege of the Lonely Mountain 2/3 Author: Angie Rating: PG (little hobbit hurting himself) Warnings: None Summary: While staying with his cousin Bilbo a ten year old Frodo gets into trouble. Disclaimer: No profit, no gain, no ownership. No kittens! Thanks to Mark for editing and Frodo Healers for supporting.  
Bilbo was a stout hobbit with a great deal of hobbit sense and he set to work heaving logs off the pile and casting them aside. His goal was not far beneath the top layer and he soon had a pair of legs uncovered. Careful of any further subsidence, he freed and carefully eased out of the stack a limply unconscious Frodo.  
  
"Oh Frodo my lad!" Bilbo breathed, laying his precious burden down on the back path and supporting the boy's head on his knee. His fingers were shaking so badly it took several fumbled attempts to find the pulse beat in the little boys throat. It was a bit fast but strong and steady. The old hobbit rocked himself a little, stroking a cheek pale beneath the dirt.  
  
The idea that the son of his dear Drogo and Primula had come to harm whilst in his care turned his insides to ice. In addition to that, and however much Frodo was driving him to distraction, there was just something about the scrap of a lad - a little spark in those wide blue eyes that always looked so innocent, yet good humoured and full of eagerness - something that touched a long buried chord in the older hobbits heart.  
  
"Hmph!" Bilbo snorted at the image, which was so clear in his mind. There was no chance that those eyes belonged to someone even remotely innocent when it came to causing mischief, though it was likely that the boy didn't actually mean to cause quite so much trouble. This was surely a case in point.  
  
Bilbo realised that he was trying to ignore his anxiety and returned his concentration to the little hobbit lying so still in his arms. Still and silent and covered in dirt and dust.  
  
Bilbo bit his lip and looked up at the blue evening sky. For a moment he was somewhere else. Far away, on a battlefield, in the aftermath of a terrible conflict. Almost to him there seemed to be another figure lying so still.  
  
"Thorin," Bilbo whispered to himself. "Thorin Oakenshield, King beneath the mountain." The hobbit shivered and shook his head. "Fool of a Baggins, pull yourself together."  
  
Bilbo carried the lad indoors and put him straight on the parlour sofa, before rushing to the kitchen for a bowl into which he put towels. He also collected the kettle off the hearth that had not yet boiled for tea.  
  
Kneeling back by the sofa, Bilbo surveyed the damage. Frodo was a mass of dirt, cobwebs and dust. More rattled that he could admit even to himself Bilbo took a deep breath before running hands lightly over limbs and torso. No broken bones.  
  
He poured the warm water from the kettle into the basin and dipping a cloth into it, began to clean off the worst of the dirt and strip off the lad's ruined shirt and breaches. The boy would be covered in bruises. There was quite a bump on his forehead and a cut over one eye. He had a gash over his ribs, not deep enough to need stitching but it was going to be painful. His left leg was a mass of bruising and scrapes where the logs had pinched and pinned him and his right leg was a bloody mess of torn skin.  
  
Hearing the second kettle boiling Bilbo went back to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, into which he generously spooned honey. It was going to taste terribly over sweet, even to a 10 year old, but the boy was going to need it.  
  
Leaving his bloody leg exposed and propped on a cushion Bilbo wrapped Frodo up in the sofa rug. The head injuries did not seem too bad but Bilbo wanted to make sure the lad did not have a concussion. Taking a cloth the older hobbit cleaned Frodo's grimy face with cool water and tapped him lightly on the cheek to rouse him. "Frodo, my lad. Can you hear me?"  
  
It took a while but eventually Frodo opened confused blue eyes. At first the lad seemed uncertain as to where he was - as though he had just woken up from a really deep sleep; unsure of his surroundings and a bit dizzy but then his eyes focused on Bilbo's face, but only briefly. With a whimper he closed his eyes again. Bilbo placed a cool wet cloth on Frodo's forehead.  
  
"Uncle Bilbo." Frodo started to speak, but his voice was hoarse and drained of all energy.  
  
"Drink this my lad," Bilbo tried to speak softly and cupped the back of his head gently to lift it. He pressed the mug of tea against Frodo's lips and the lad seemed to swallow with out thinking, drinking half the cup before Bilbo eased his head back onto the cushion.  
  
As Bilbo gently sponged the bump on his forehead Frodo groaned. "What happened?"  
  
"That's what I would like to know. I found you under the log pile. But how it came to fall over on you I can't fathom. How do you feel?"  
  
"Sick," said Frodo and, suiting actions to words, jerked upright and threw up in spectacular fashion into his cousins lap, before collapsing backwards again with a whimper of distress.  
  
Bilbo just sat still for a moment in shock.  
  
"I'm sorry," Frodo whispered. Then, to Bilbo's even further horror, his enormous blue eyes filled up with tears and he began to cry. "I want my mama!"  
  
Bilbo acted purely on instinct. Ignoring the blood, vomit and wood dust he gathered the sobbing child up in his arms to pull him close.  
  
"There Frodo. It will be all right. Shush my dear. Uncle Bilbo will look after you." All the while stroking his filthy curls.  
  
Bilbo insisted Frodo sip again at the cup between hiccupping sobs. The sobs eventually calmed and Bilbo was able to wipe the little nose and cheeks of his cousin.  
  
"Are you going to be sick again?" he asked more tenderly.  
  
"No," Frodo replied. "But I feel cold and shaky and my head hurts and my mouth tastes horrid."  
  
That he did not mention his torn and bloody leg was sign enough that he was in a state of shock.  
  
"Lets get you cleaned up and into bed then, Pumpkin." The term of endearment fell past his lips unsummoned. It was what Bilbo's own mother had used to call her only child.  
  
With his usual efficiency Bilbo had himself into fresh breaches by the time sweet blackberry tea had brewed and he fed Frodo a second cup before tending to his other hurts. Frodo's shock was beginning to wear off and he was beginning to whimper. Bilbo knew he had to finish his ministrations quickly before full feeling came back to his little cousin. He bathed the lacerated leg carefully, noting thankfully that the tears were not deep. There were a number of splinters and Bilbo set about removing them one by one and cleaning the area well afterwards. He talked all the while to the lad, telling him what he was doing, reassuring him that it would soon be over. Frodo winced and cried out a couple of times as he did this and Bilbo soothed him with words and caresses. There was a particularly nasty splinter on the lad's shin that took a bit of getting hold of. "Steady my boy. Here we go. The last big one. There we are."  
  
Frodo screwed up his face and kicked out with a fur covered foot. "But it hurts!" he protested, trying to pull his leg away. Bilbo grasped the wayward ankle firmly and drew it back towards him.  
  
"If it is not clean it will not get well," Bilbo said, continuing sternly, "and may I draw your attention to the fact that if you carry on adventuring in such a reckless manner you may have more of this to look forward to!"  
  
Tears welled up in Frodo's eyes as he took in Bilbo's harsh words.  
  
Bilbo was instantly contrite. "There, there, lad, it's not so bad as that. I'm not telling you not to go adventuring - I'm just telling you to be more careful about it! And to prepare better for your adventures. I know from experience that things can get pretty tricky if you don't prepare in advance. I'll tell you more about that this evening if you would like." He smiled warmly at the lad. Frodo thought about his words for a few moment and then offered a shy and tremulous smile in return. He winced again as Bilbo completed his ministrations, but this time tried to remain still under Bilbo's gentle touch until the older hobbit had covered the injuries with a light gauze pad.  
  
"There. All over, and you were very brave." Bilbo leaned over and gave his youngest cousin a comforting hug, surprising himself in the process at this break in his normal reserve and sudden display of affection. He also made a mental note to himself to run down to the Gaffers as soon as he could to get some of the comfrey cream his gardener swore by. "Bless my soul," Bilbo thought to himself. "The lad is getting to me, so he is!"  
  
Finally Bilbo got the little hobbit transferred into a fresh nightshirt and carried him down to the third best guest room which he had been occupying. The room was already looking a little the worse for wear. Bilbo had turned his back on it a few hours after Frodo took up habitation. He would clean it thoroughly when the child was gone. Frodo flatly refused to make his bed and Bilbo flatly refused to make it for him and so it remained unmade. The boy's idea was to climb into bed and then settle the covers over himself. Bilbo was quite sure Primula did not usually let him get away with that - though more likely, the over indulgent mother made the bed for her treasure.  
  
Frodo's kite was crashed on the dresser as though he had been trying to fly it indoors, which was frankly not beyond him, while yesterday's clothing was still on the floor.  
  
The older hobbit deposited his bundle on the bed and reached to pull the quilts up over him. He paused, realising that the covers would be too much pressure on the sore leg. He thought for a moment and then returned to the parlour and came back moments later with the foot stool which he put over his legs and then arranged the quilt over the top.  
  
"That was a good idea," Frodo told his cousin. Bilbo smiled at the authoritative tone the boy had adopted, marvelling at the same time at the way those startlingly blue eyes sparkled when they were not full of tears or pain.  
  
Next he retrieved a clean chamber pot, which he put on a low stool by the head of the bed. "In case you need to be sick again."  
  
Frodo made a horrid face at the idea.  
  
"How does your head feel?"  
  
"Like it did the time I fell out of the kitchen window at home," Frodo replied.  
  
"What ever were you doing in the log pile in the first place?" Bilbo wanted to know.  
  
Frodo sniffed sorrowfully. "I was building a fortress on the Lonely Mountain."  
  
Bilbo stroked the curling hair away from the pale forehead. "I wish you had picked a safer place to do it."  
  
"So do I," came the sad little reply.  
  
"I need to run down to the Gaffers," Bilbo said. "Will you be alright just for a few moments?" Bilbo did not like to leave his charge but he did not see the alternative.  
  
Frodo nodded.  
  
"Then I won't be long." 


	3. Chapter 3

So sorry it has taken me so long to finish this or update anything else. My editor got a new contract and my house got flooded. I have also updated 'Mother Love' on ff.net – where Frodo is coming down with a nice case of something (  
  
Title: The Siege of The Lonely Mountain3/3 Author: Angie Rating: PG (little hobbit hurting himself) Warnings: None  
Summary: While staying with his cousin Bilbo a ten year old  
Frodo gets into a scrape.  
Disclaimer: No profit, no gain, no ownership. No kittens! No  
squirrels! No drunken little hobbits!  
  
Frodo lay in the semi darkness of his bedroom. His head was feeling a little clearer, though things still seemed fuzzy and he preferred to keep his eyes shut. He knew Bilbo would not be long. He closed his eyes and snuggled back into the big soft pillows beneath his head and reached out to pull the quilt up under his chin as he liked it. When his mother put him to bed she would pull the quilt right up over his head and then pretend to wonder where he had gone.  
  
Unfortunately the movement caused the quilt to brush against some of the more sensitive areas of his body and Frodo gave a whimper as fresh pains suddenly sprang up from a dozen places. Worst of all a throbbing and a sharp smarting was starting to make itself felt in his right leg. Ow! But it was really starting to hurt. Frodo lifted up the cover a little to peak under. What was wrong with his leg? He pulled the coverings back with an effort and pulled his leg out from under the foot stool to get his first good look at his injury. There was a bandage over it that was dark with the blood underneath that was starting to seep through. It was not really so very bad, nor bleeding freely, the darkness was really just the raw flesh but to a ten year old attached to the limb it looked like the most awful battle wound.  
  
Frodo stuffed a fist into his mouth in horror and realised that he was about to be sick again. He twisted round to reach for the chamber pot Bilbo had set out for him, knocked the foot stool over, jerked round trying to escape the new pain in his leg – and fell out of bed with a crunch in a tangle of bed clothes. The chamber pot tilted over with what he was sure was malicious intent and hit him squarely over the head and Frodo lost consciousness again.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The air was cold around him and the silence oppressive. It should not be so quiet. There was a feeling of space around him and hard rock beneath his cheek. His head hurt, a low throbbing behind his temples. He lay still.  
  
Hands were lifting him. Easing him up. But he wanted to stay still against the throbbing in his head. A voice cried: "He's alive!" far too loudly. Frodo found himself with a large rock at his back against which he leant as the pain in his head increased ten fold. He must have fallen onto something because his right side hurt too, over his ribs.  
  
A few feet away from him lay the body of some strange creature. Its mouth was frozen in a ferocious snarl and there was blood around its mouth and lolling tongue and a great quantity of broken teeth. The air smelt horrible, of stale dust and blood.  
  
"There's more to this than meets the eye," boomed a new voice.  
  
Frodo blinked and rubbed his hands across his eyes trying to see more clearly. Dust was still settling around him in the gloomy chamber. How had he come to be here and who was this hairy faced giant leaning over him and opening his shirt!  
  
"Mithril!"  
  
Frodo closed his eyes and leant back against the cool stone.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
There were voices, hands lifting him, softness and a cool cloth on his head.  
  
"…should not have left him…"  
  
"There, there, these things happen," a female voice.  
  
"… blame myself,"  
  
A soft little laugh, "I blame myself whenever one of mine so much as sneezes." Soft hands. "There's not so much harm as time won't soon put right. Hobbit lads bounce. Why Ham fell right down the hill once and got up to walk home afterwards with out a flinch. Mind you he could 'ardly walk the next day and was that covered in bruises."  
  
"I could not face his mother if anything happened to the lad. Frodo is their only child and they dote on him."  
  
"I can see why." A cool hand pressed to his cheek. It smelt of cinnamon bread.  
  
Frodo opened his eyes. A strange lady with a kindly face was leaning over him. "There my poppet. Nothing much wrong with you now is there?"  
  
Frodo sniffed and blinked a few times. "Who are you?"  
  
"This is Mrs Gamgee," said Bilbo. "How do you feel, my lad?"  
  
"I fell out of bed," Frodo complained.  
  
"We noticed," said Bilbo ruefully.  
  
Bell was busying herself with a bowl of water and a flannel which she laid on Frodo's head. "There lad, close your eyes." The water smelt of lavender and felt wonderfully cool as Frodo noticed for the first time the headache he had. Her fingers brushed hair back from his forehead and soothed the ach there with a mother's touch.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Late on a summer's afternoon, a whole two days before expected, Primula and Drogo Baggins drove up to the front gate of Bag end. "What will Bilbo say to seeing us back early?" Drogo smiled at his wife as he came round to help her from the cart.  
  
"Oh I know, I am silly, but I can't stand to be away from Frodo for any longer."  
  
"Hush, lass, no need for apologies. I understand." Drogo set his wife onto the ground and she was through the gate and up the path before he could return to the pony's head. "I miss the lad too." Frodo's father stroked the pony's soft nose. "Though if I know anything of our Frodo he has probably driven Bilbo mad by now."  
  
"Bilbo! Frodo!" Primula called as she pushed open the lovely round green door of Bag end. "We're home!"  
  
There was the unmistakable sound of a cup being dropped. Unperturbed Primula followed the sound until she reached the airy kitchen and came to a sudden halt. Bilbo was standing at the sink – looking like he had been holding a cup a moment before. Frodo sat on the kitchen table – a bandaged leg stuck out in front of him and a strip of gauze on his forehead half hidden behind his unruly curls.  
  
"The log pile fell on me!" said Frodo proudly just as his father walked in the door.  
  
"He's fine. Really." stuttered Bilbo.  
  
"Oh, Bilbo, I am so sorry. I never should have left him with you. He is always having accidents and falling over. I should never have given you the responsibility of looking after him."  
  
"Oh I don't know," said Bilbo. "Of all my adventures this has probably been the most eventful."  
  
Frodo giggled and wiggled in his mother's arms as she hugged and tickled him lightly.  
  
"Young hobbit my lad, what did I tell you about playing up your Uncle Bilbo?" Drogo asked sternly.  
  
"Not to do it, or the trolls would get me," recited Frodo.  
  
"And what do trolls do to hobbit lads?" Drogo's eyes were twinkling.  
  
"Make them into pie crusts!" laughed Frodo in delight.  
  
Bilbo went to get a pan and brush to sweep up the broken cup. He would never, ever, even if he outlived the Old Took, understand children. From his hands and knees he looked up at Frodo, still giggling, sandwiched between Primula and Drogo's loving arms, and he caught a look between the couple, over their child's head, so full of love and tenderness and shared understanding that he quickly looked away ashamed to have witnessed it. He felt warm in the presence of the little family group.  
  
The end 


End file.
